'Farewell, my Spain! a long farewell!' he cried,
'Perhaps I may revisit thee no more,
But die, as many an exiled heart hath died, Of its own thirst to see again thy shore: Farewell, where Guadalquivir's waters glide! Farewell, my mother! and, since all is o'er, Farewell, too, dearest Julia!--(Here he drew Her letter out again, and read it through.)
'And, oh! if e'er I should forget, I swear-- But that 's impossible, and cannot be-- Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air, Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea, Than I resign thine image, oh, my fair!
Or think of any thing excepting thee; A mind diseased no remedy can physic
(Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew sea-sick).
'Sooner shall heaven kiss earth (here he fell sicker), O, Julia! what is every other wo?
(For God's sake let me have a glass of liquor; Pedro, Battista, help me down below.)
Julia, my love! (you rascal, Pedro, quicker)-- O, Julia! (this curst vessel pitches so)-- Beloved Julia, hear me still beseeching!' (Here he grew inarticulate with retching.)
He felt that chilling heaviness of heart, Or rather stomach, which, alas! attends, Beyond the best apothecary's art,
The loss of love, the treachery of friends, Or death of those we dote on, when a part
Of us dies with them as each fond hope ends:
No doubt he would have been much more pathetic, But the sea acted as a strong emetic. I
Love 's a capricious power: I 've known it hold Out through a fever caused by its own heat, But be much puzzled by a cough and cold,
And find a quincy very hard to treat; Against all noble maladies he 's bold, But vulgar illnesses don't like to meet,
Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh,
Nor inflammations redden his blind eye.
But worst of all is nausea, or a pain About the lower region of the bowels; Love, who heroically breathes a vein,
Shrinks from the application of hot towels, And purgatives are dangerous to his reign,
Sea-sickness death: his love was perfect, how else
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Could Juan's passion, while the billows roar, Resist his stomach, ne'er at sea before?
The ship, call'd the most holy 'Trinidada,' Was steering duly for the port Leghorn; For there the Spanish family Moncada Were settled long ere Juan's sire was born:
They were relations, and for them he had a
Letter of introduction, which the morn Of his departure had been sent him by His Spanish friends for those in Italy.
His suite consisted of three servants and
A tutor, the licentiate Pedrillo,
Who several languages did understand,
But now lay sick and speechless on his pillow, And rocking in his hammock, long'd for land, His headache being increased by every billow;
And the waves oozing through the port-hole made
His berth a little damp, and him afraid.
'T was not without some reason, for the wind
Increased at night, until it blew a gale;
And though 't was not much to a naval mind, Some landsmen would have look'd a little pale, For sailors are, in fact, a different kind:
At sunset they began to take in sail,
For the sky show'd it would come on to blow, And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so.
At one o'clock the wind with sudden shift
Threw the ship right into the trough of the sea, Which struck her aft, and made an awkward rift, Started the stern-post, also shatter'd the
Whole of her stern-frame, and, ere she could lift
Herself from out her present jeopardy, The rudder tore away: 't was time to sound
The pumps, and there were four feet water found.
One gang of people instantly was put
Upon the pumps and the remainder set To get up part of the cargo, and what not; But they could not come at the leak as yet; At last they did get at it really, but
Still their salvation was an even bet:
The water rush'd through in a way quite puzzling,
While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of muslin,
Into the opening; but all such ingredients
Would have been vain, and they must have gone down, Despite of all their efforts and expedients,
But for the pumps: I 'm glad to make them known To all the brother tars who may have need hence, For fifty tons of water were upthrown
By them per hour, and they had all been undone, But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London.
As day advanced the weather seem'd to abate,
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And then the leak they reckon'd to reduce, And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yet Kept two hand and one chain-pump still in use. The wind blew fresh again: as it grew late
A squall came on, and while some guns broke loose, A gust--which all descriptive power transcends-- Laid with one blast the ship on her beam ends.
There she lay motionless, and seem'd upset; The water left the hold, and wash'd the decks, And made a scene men do not soon forget; For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks, Or any other thing that brings regret,
Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or necks: Thus drownings are much talk'd of by the divers, And swimmers, who may chance to be survivors.
Immediately the masts were cut away,
Both main and mizen; first the mizen went, The main-mast follow'd: but the ship still lay Like a mere log, and baffled our intent.
Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and they
Eased her at last (although we never meant To part with all till every hope was blighted), And then with violence the old ship righted.
It may be easily supposed, while this
Was going on, some people were unquiet, That passengers would find it much amiss To lose their lives, as well as spoil their diet; That even the able seaman, deeming his Days nearly o'er, might be disposed to riot, As upon such occasions tars will ask
For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask.
There 's nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms
As rum and true religion: thus it was,
Some plunder'd, some drank spirits, some sung psalms, The high wind made the treble, and as bas
The hoarse harsh waves kept time; fright cured the qualms
Of all the luckless landsmen's sea-sick maws: Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devotion, Clamour'd in chorus to the roaring ocean.
Perhaps more mischief had been done, but for Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his years, Got to the spirit-room, and stood before
It with a pair of pistols; and their fears,
As if Death were more dreadful by his door Of fire than water, spite of oaths and tears, Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they sunk, Thought it would be becoming to die drunk.
'Give us more grog,' they cried, 'for it will be
All one an hour hence.' Juan answer'd, 'No!
'T is true that death awaits both you and me, But let us die like men, not sink below
Like brutes;'--and thus his dangerous post kept he,
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And none liked to anticipate the blow;
And even Pedrillo, his most